But it was John Ryder's eyes that were regarded as the most
reliable barometer of his mental condition. Wonderful eyes they
were, strangely eloquent and expressive, and their most singular
feature was that they possessed the uncanny power of changing
colour like a cat's. When their owner was at peace with the world,
and had temporarily shaken off the cares of business, his eyes
were of the most restful, beautiful blue, like the sky after
sunrise on a Spring morning, and looking into their serene depths
it seemed absurd to think that this man could ever harm a fly. His
face, while under the spell of this kindly mood, was so benevolent
and gentle, so frank and honest that you felt there was nothing in
the world--purse, honour, wife, child--that, if needs be, you
would not entrust to his keeping.

When this period of truce was ended, when the plutocrat was once
more absorbed in controlling the political as well as the
commercial machinery of the nation, then his eyes took on a
snakish, greenish hue, and one could plainly read in them the
cunning, the avariciousness, the meanness, the insatiable thirst
for gain that had made this man the most unscrupulous money-getter
of his time. But his eyes had still another colour, and when this
last transformation took place those dependent on him, and even
his friends, quaked with fear. For they were his eyes of anger. On
these dreaded occasions his eyes grew black as darkest night and
flashed fire as lightning rends the thundercloud. Almost
ungovernable fury was, indeed, the weakest spot in John Ryder's
armour, for in these moments of appalling wrath he was reckless of
what he said or did, friendship, self-interest, prudence--all were
sacrificed.